


Five Times Sherlock Heard John Sing and the One Time Sherlock Sang Instead

by CountryDogLover



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, John secretly likes to sing, Johnlock will happen, M/M, More tags to follow, Pre-Slash, and to get fluffier as it goes on too, and will likely follow canon until canon runs out, but not their first time, for now at least, hopefully maybe okay maybe not, just later, muhahaha, starts in series 1, then sex, then theyre mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:36:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1408486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountryDogLover/pseuds/CountryDogLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five Times Sherlock Heard John Sing and the One Time Sherlock Sang Instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First

Sherlock Holmes, although a man who prided himself on his personal hygiene, was not a tidy person in general. He didn't mind that dust lined the bookshelves, or particularly care if the hoovering got done every week, nor did he ever seem to notice if the dishes were stacked high and it was a distinct possibility they had started growing things. 

But by moving in with a man whose past habits from the army had deeply embedded the need for order and cleanliness, Sherlock knew that he would likely be hearing complaints and nagging long before even the first week of cohabitation was over.

John, in his never ending quest to surprise Sherlock however, never did such things. On the days that Mrs. Hudson didn't clean their flat herself (because she wasn't lying when she told them she wasn't their housekeeper, and John did hate troubling her with her hip and all), John would undoubtedly take on the task himself if they didn't have a case.

There was one catch to this though. John clearly didn't like cleaning while Sherlock, or rather anyone, was around. Sherlock couldn't fathom why this was, but he observed the minute tension in John's shoulders when he attempted dusting with Sherlock sprawled on the couch. After several more instances, Sherlock decided the take long walks when he noticed his flatmate noticing the state of their shared space. 

It was on one of these walks early in their friendship that Sherlock realized ten minutes down that road he had forgotten his mobile. They weren't currently on a case, but he desperately hoped Lestrade would text with anything to occupy his mind. But getting text while his mobile currently resided on the coffee table wouldn't do much good. 

Turning on his heel, the detective made his way back to the flat, hoping to just slip in without John noticing his return. Mind whirling around the prospects that could await him on his phone (for some reason, someone with a weird name's cat was floating on the edge of his thoughts) Sherlock was creeping the flat door open before he registered the music playing. 

It was distinctly rock, but nothing new, maybe from the 80s, surely not a song Sherlock would know (if he did he had long since deleted it). And loud, much louder than men of their age would be expected to be listening to, the strong beat pounding through the air. He wasn't too surprised that John's taste would run in the vein of classic rock, but the sight that was before him froze him in place, hand outreached towards his forgotten mobile.

"She used to look good to me, but now I find her…" bang bang bang bang "simply irresistible!" John's voice was clear, a bit out of pitch, and loud. He bounced-- literally bounced!-- on his heels while swiping the feather duster over the edges of the bookshelf in an odd form of dance, throwing his head from side to side with the beat nearly shouting the words. 

Sherlock didn't know what to make of this, or know how long he watched, staring as the doctor lifted the end of the duster to use as a makeshift microphone. A microphone. Was this why he voluntarily kicked himself out of the flat, so John could sing and dance badly in peace while he cleaned?

Both men were brought back to reality when Sherlock's phone decided to make its presence known, dinging loudly enough between the beats to be heard. Scrambling forward, the device knocked to the floor in a poor attempt the leave before John could really notice he was there. But the damage had been done, because when Sherlock turned around John had turned off the music and a flush creeping up his neck.

An awkward silence descended around them, more deafening than the music had been. 

Avoiding Sherlock's intense gaze, John rubbed the back of his neck at a loss for words.

John tried to break the silence first. "I.. Well I was obviously… God this is embarrassing."

Sherlock gaped for a few more precious seconds before deciding how to react. He leaned over, snatched up his mobile off the rug, and in the way only Sherlock Holmes can, swept out the room with a complete air of indifference with only one remark for his flatmate. 

"John, never quit your day job."


	2. The Second Time

Sherlock was facing his greatest challenge yet.

He has confronted murderers, bargained with blackmailers, battled drug lords and drug addiction. He has even suffered one long month living with Mycroft after a particularly nasty bount of influenza. But nothing was as terrifying and as challenging as this current endeavor. 

Babysitting. 

Sherlock could place the blame for his current predicament squarely on John's shoulders. If it hadn't been for his kind nature and willingness to go out of his way to help others, there wouldn't be twin girls crying and screaming in their flat on a Thursday night. 

Lestrade, although a viable colleague and an excellent provider of distraction from boredom, had begged and pleaded with the flatmates to watch over his two youngest children: 15 months old Sophie and Ella. His soon to be ex-wife was at a "conference" (which equaled a weekend away with her most recent lover) while Lestrade was "dealing with a personal matter" (truth, although just a delicate phrasing of "I'm going to finally confront my wife and declare intentions of an imminent divorce"). He had handed one sleeping baby to each of the men, dropped a diaper bag covered in flowers and bees in the front hall way, gushing his thanks as he rushed back towards his car. 

John had taken their change in plans in stride. Not like they had any plans, but with no case on the men had resigned themselves to a quiet evening in. Sherlock would sequester himself into the kitchen to perform his latest experiment (actually, it was a preliminary experiment while he waited for Molly to get a hold of a whole head for him), while John sat in his chair watching the telly. The volume would be loud enough that Sherlock could hear and shout his belittling and snide comments at the drivel that John submits his mind to. It had become their unspoken routine, and although Sherlock would never speak this thought aloud, he had come to treasure the ease at which his living with John had brought to his life. 

Each with a baby braced against their shoulders, they made their way upstairs to their flat. John quietly shut the flat door, turned back to Sherlock, but there were no words. He gave a slightly apologetic smile then proceeded to sit in his armchair, the sleeping babe nestled in the crook of his neck. 

Maybe they will just sleep the whole time they are here. Surely Lestrade won't take too long to resolve his "personal matter"… 

Of course, it had been too much to ask for the babies to continue to sleep. Not a quarter of an hour into the impromptu babysitting session did Sherlock accidently jostled the girl in his arms (was this one Sophie, or did he have Ella?) and she began to screech her displeasure to the action. He had only been trying to copy what had worked well for John, but his movements weren't as smooth. John laughed at the sheer panic that had crossed Sherlock's face; that was of course, before he also had an arm full of screaming child.

Sherlock has nothing against children. When it comes to solving some cases, they can be invaluable with their candor and naturally observant ways. However, he had no clue as to what to do when they were this small, too young to do more than stumble about while babbling random syllables and words. And he especially had no premise as to how to cease the incessant crying. 

John had disappeared into the kitchen, bouncing a bit and making little shh-ing noises. It didn't seem to help, but Sherlock figured it couldn't hurt either. He began rocking and shushing, practically pleading with the youngin (he was almost sure he held Sophie) to quit her howling. A few minutes later, John came back in holding out a bottle for Sherlock to take. The second the bottle came into the little one's sight, the cries tapered off and little hands reached out, snatching it away from her caretakers with a look of obvious disgust at Sherlock's incompetence. 

"Oh, that little angel is hungry," John commented absently, rubbing Ella's (most assuredly Ella's) back in soothing circles. Her face was already pressed back into his neck, clearly more annoyed at being woken than in actual need of anything. John continued to slowly bounce his body to and fro, as he took his leave of the sitting room to climb the stairs to his room.

Sherlock couldn't believe that John would abandon him alone with Sophie. What if she started crying again? Wasn't there something that needed to be done after a feeding? Oh God, what if she needed a diaper change? 

Just as he was about to start fully panicking, Sherlock looked down at the babe, sure that she would be requiring everything with her eyes and he wouldn't be able to provide, he saw that her eyes were closed and the sucking had slowed to a more absentminded speed. 

As he got up, Sherlock was much more careful to not manhandle her again into consciousness. He removed the bottle and placed it on the kitchen counter (if Sherlock was to be subjected to babysitting, then surely John could take care of clean up…)

Sherlock, as a curious being by nature, was beginning to wonder what was keeping the other man. He shifted Sophie a little higher on his shoulder as he began his ascent to the upper level that was John's bedroom. As he approached the door, he could hear the low murmur of words. No, not just words, a song.

"Your papa's gonna to buy you a diamond ring…  
And if that diamond ring turns brass,  
your papa's going to buy you a looking glass…  
And if that looking glass gets broke,  
your papa's going to buy you a billy goat…" 

John noticed Sherlock hovering at the door and gestured for him to come in. He had placed his bedding and few pillows around the edges of the bed, providing a barrier for the girls. Ella was asleep near the middle, curled on her side and softly breathing. John came over to Sherlock, gentling removing the baby from his arms and placing her next to her sister on the bed.

"I've forgotten the rest of the song. I remember mummy would sing it to Harry as a baby, always put her right to sleep," John whispered, a wry grin on his face. "Although, my mom did have a much better singing voice. I might have just traumatized the poor angel." 

"I hardly doubt one encounter with your singing is going to severely affect the emotional or intellectual development of a 15 month old," Sherlock replied, an answering smile on his face.

They both made their way downstairs again, John confident and Sherlock less so that the girls will be alright upstairs alone.

After the third reassurance, John finally said, "Jesus Sherlock, they're okay. Goodness you'd be an awful parent." The words didn't surprise him, he had heard them before, or a derivative of that statement, but from John, they hurt more than anticipated. John continued, "I mean, you'd be the dad at the door, background check in hand of any date your daughter would ever consider, probably even before it crossed her mind. Then, you'd try and scare the poor boy off before the date could even happen." John chuckled. "But then, she would be part you, so she wouldn't pick a guy unless she thought he could withstand you. Be a sight though." 

John fell silent, completely oblivious to the turmoil he had unleashed in Sherlock's mind, and sat in his chair with the telly on low. 

Sherlock sat also, but his mind was fully focused inward. Long into the evening, after Lestrade had come to pick up the twins, after John had tried and failed to communicate to Sherlock that he should get some rest before he retired to his room, Sherlock sat. John's description of how he could be with a child of his own was so novel, so surprising, that he just didn't have a previous experience to compare it to. 

Once again, John had taken what was a norm in Sherlock's universe and flipped it in the most unsuspecting way.


	3. The Third Time

Sometimes, when there was a break in leads, Sherlock allowed himself a very limited time back in London. As much has he craved more time dead men can't be picky. He never tells Mycroft of these times, but of course the elder Holmes probably knows. Nosy git.

It had been almost 19 months since Moriarty had forced his hand, virtually pushing the detective from the rooftop in order to save John. Although Sherlock wouldn't actively follow John on his ventures back in England, he did try and keep some tabs on the man who had been his only friend in life. He knew that there was a new girlfriend, one that it was looking to be quite serious if the reports of her moving in with him were any indication. 

However, standing in much the same spot as he did all those months ago, he observed his friend at his grave. Mary hadn't accompanied him, who knows where she is today. Sherlock frankly doesn't care. John stands, straight and stoic, much as he always did before. He doesn't say anything, just stares at the stone that he must already have memorized. He doesn't shiver, despite the cold and his lack of gloves and hat, too absorbed in his thoughts to acknowledge that it is beginning to rain. 

Sherlock risks moving closer, just a bit closer, so that maybe this time he can heard the words John might say. He can't be seen, his living status can't be revealed no matter how much he wishes to vanquish the sorrow he sees in his doctor's eyes. He positions himself just behind John's peripherals, behind a pillar of the building on sight. If John were to turn around, he wouldn't see Sherlock.

They both stand in silence, and once that was a comfortable thing for them. But death and secrets tend to remove any hint of easy warmth and companionability from even the strongest of relationships. Sherlock takes the time to catalogue the differences in his companion. 

The blond hair had a few more gray hairs, while the weight that he had lost in his depression had been put back on, but no extra poundage. If anything, Sherlock detects that it is more muscled than before. He's been working out, and if the scrapes on his knuckles are any clue, John has been bare knuckle boxing. A release of stress, most likely. 

Deep in his analysis of his partner, Sherlock starts a bit when John finally starts talking. 

Or rather, when John starts singing. It started with a quiet hum, but then words reached Sherlock's ears. 

"Return to me… Oh my dear I'm so lonely… Hurry back, hurry back." John's voice cracked, bowing his head and hunched shoulders. "Oh God, if only you could hurry back."

That last bit was spoken so quietly, so broken, that Sherlock felt something twist inside with an intensity that almost made him reveal himself, to throw himself between John and the headstone and scream “I’m not dead, everything is alright again!” Anything to wipe the anguish off of his friend's face. But that was a deadly wish to have, for it would place John in a danger that Sherlock could only hope to prevent by staying a phantom to the world. 

John takes a moment to collect himself before chuckling a bit. No tears are on his face, but the pain is still evident in his eyes. “You would have hated that. Positively dripping in gooey sentiment and feelings. Couldn’t help myself though. Mary insisted we watch this movie last night, um, Return to Me, or something like that. She has a thing for the main actor guy. David… whatever his last name is, he was on this American TV show that you have probably never heard of. Anyways.” He shakes his head, as if the action could force his thought process in order. How do people truly think and accomplish anything with such disorder running rampant in their minds? “I could barely make it through, because all I could think was why he got that second chance to hold onto part of his loved one, the heart no less, when I can’t have anything of you. Which is ridiculous, I know. We weren’t married, or partners, or even dating. I can almost hear you scoffing at this, even though you might think a heart transplant would be pretty cool. Probably try a thousand different experiments on yourself…” 

He pauses, glancing around the cemetery then at his watch, sighing. “Well, my shift starts soon.” And like that first time, John steps up to the stone and softly pats it, murmuring something too softly for it to reach Sherlock’s ears. 

With that, John awkwardly turns away from the cold granite and marches over the grass towards the exit. And if Sherlock realizes tears are filling in his eyes, he doesn’t outwardly show it as he too follows a short time later to leave London one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't seen the movie Return to Me with David Duchovny then you should. Because it is wonderful. Anyways, sorry these are so short. Maybe the next few will be longer, who knows. Thanks for reading!


	4. The Fourth Time

Getting shot hurts. Being shot, then escaping the hospital to expose your best friend’s wife’s assassination tendencies borders on excruciating. 

Back in his private room several hours after the emergency surgery to cease the internal bleeding, Sherlock was drifting between exhaustion and a drug induced haze. He didn’t hear John enter the room as he finally dropped off into a deep sleep.

He would later be told that it was four days before he regained full consciousness, but it had felt like he was hit by a double decker then only took a cat nap when he came to. John was there, quiet and strong, tethering Sherlock to the world. The same as always. Before Mary, or the fall, before Moriarty and his game. There had always been John, as if tied by a string to Sherlock’s heart.

Oh God, what drugs is he on to be spouting that nonsense? That seemed to have come from the literary section of the mind palace. Maybe it was time again to go through that…

John must have sensed something change as he was suddenly standing over Sherlock with a soft smile and a cup of water. “Hey. Glad to see you’ve decided to join us. And just so you’re aware, when you get out of here, I’m going to punch you again for that shite you pulled.” Sherlock took a sip of water before John forcefully pushed it up more, stopping all protests while barreling along. “Once again, putting a case, no matter how important it may have seem, ahead of your body’s needs. And to think you call yourself a genius.” While the words were meant to be serious and foreboding, the soft tone and the constant worry in John’s eyes betrayed him.

Sherlock smirked, putting aside the now empty cup. “What else was I supposed to do? Hospitals can be so dreadfully boring…” John snorted, and that turned the smirk into a full smile, one so rare on his face that he had almost forgotten how those muscles worked. 

“Idiot.” John’s smile answered him back, the one that always softened his face and made the blue eyes dance in amusement. Sherlock felt that string pull a bit tighter around his heart. 

Damn the morphine. 

“Not this time though,” John continued, oblivious to Sherlock’s displeasure with his mind’s constant attempt at sentiment. “You are to remain in this bed until you are completely better even if I have to sit on you to keep you there.”

“Do you have to sit on all your patients?”

“Only the incredibly genius yet totally daft ones with boredom problems.” 

“Well, that certainly narrows the list down,” Sherlock quipped. His eyes started drooping of their own accord, desperate to sleep once more. He didn’t want to, didn’t want the easy camaraderie to cease for a moment. He’d miss this with John. 

“Don’t fight it Sherlock. Just sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.” And just as it had always done before, Sherlock drifted to that soft sounding voice, trusting it completely. 

********

The next time he resurfaced, some 14 hours later, John was singing. Music was coming from something, maybe a radio in the room. Sherlock keeps his eyes closed in order to prolong the moment.

“…baby, hope you're going to stay away,  
'Cause I'm getting weaker, weaker, every day,  
I guess I'm not as strong as I used to be,  
And if you use me again it'll be the end of me.   
Cuz when the loving starts and the lights go down,   
and there’s not another living soul around,   
you woo me until the sun comes up and you say that you love me…” 

He hums along with the musical interlude puttering around with something on his laptop. The detective can hear the keys clicking, albeit slowly, as is his bloggers way. The lyrics get repetitive after that, so Sherlock listens just to the cadence of John’s words. 

Singing wise, John is horribly flat, but that could just be from his effort to remain quiet for Sherlock’s sake. No, no, he remembers John singing when they first moved in together and it had been flat then too. Conclusion: John holds no talent in that aspect. Had it really been only just over four years since that incident? 

Never the less, it is soft, reassuring. And Sherlock is still so very tired that it takes no time at all to drop into unconsciousness once more. The last thing he hears in John’s words, “falling falling falling…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and the kudos! Extra love to any who know the literary reference Sherlock makes. Hope you are having a great day!


	5. The Fifth TIme

Sherlock doesn’t know how he got into this situation. 

He had been patiently doing his experiments in the kitchen when John came in saying he was going to the pub (which Sherlock already knew by his clothes and hair) to meet with his army mates (which Sherlock gleaned from John’s excitement level), and queried if Sherlock would care to join him (which Sherlock would never admit to being blindsided by the question). 

“Why would you want me to be in attendance?” John had never once invited Sherlock along to the pub, probably his subconscious recognition that the detective would not want to go, which would be an astute assumption. Sherlock couldn’t comprehend the appeal of the loud rambunctious crowd and the deeply embedded smell of alcohol that enviably drew the lesser minded population to the establishments. 

“I dunno, maybe curiosity finally got the better of you. You’ve never met my army mates, and try as you might to deduce them from me second hand, you know you’d get the best information in direct contact.” John gave him a look, which Sherlock ignored to look back down at the petri dish in front of him. “And besides, it might be fun. A night out, it could help clear the air between us.”

Sherlock couldn’t understand what John meant by that last statement. They were fine. Sure the little hiccup with Mary was unfortunate, but they had gotten past it. John was back in Baker Street (where he belonged) and had been for almost eight months now. The two seemed more in sync with each other than ever and Sherlock couldn’t be happier. (Well—no, shut up). 

The detective looked up at John again, really giving him the full deductive stare. Interesting. His hair looked like it was fussed with a bit more than the usual for a night at the pub; the shirt was actually ironed (a norm for Sherlock’s shirts, but for John not so much); his best pair of jeans held up by his best belt that matched his leather shoes perfectly. This was no ordinary night out. John wouldn’t go through all this trouble just for a few old army friends.

Or would he?

No, why would he do that?

Good question indeed.

Damn his curiosity. 

“Fine. Just let me grab my suit jacket and coat.” 

John flashed his grandest smile. “Brilliant.” 

That still didn’t explain how Sherlock was sitting at a table (albeit relatively clean for this type of establishment), bored beyond belief as he was subjected to hearing about the new ‘exciting’ things in John’s friend’s lives, being jostled every so often by people scooting by behind him. One’s wife was pregnant, another recently engaged (for the third time, and Sherlock didn’t see evidence of this one lasting either), yet another was lying about his weekend with a hot nurse in Cork (Sherlock had barely concealed his snort; John had noticed and gently kicked his shin, giving a stern look that clearly said “Don’t say a word or I’ll kick to leave a mark”. Sherlock had kept his mouth shut). 

One of them men (He had been introduced, but Sherlock really couldn’t care what all their names were…), a nurse by the look of his hands and the tie of his shoelaces, turned in his chair to face John. “So John, I hear you go and get married and then not six months later it all went to hell? What happened man?” 

Sherlock noticed his friend stiffen slightly. He didn’t like to talk about Mary. Understandable. Not everyone’s wives turned out to be assassins, try to kill their best friend, then have it revealed that she had been working all along with aforementioned best friend’s evil nemesis. And of course, none of that was public knowledge, nor would it ever be. It was a heavy weight to carry for the doctor. But they had gotten through. The Moriarty situation had be taken care of, Mary thoroughly eradicated from their lives, and John moved back in with Sherlock as soon as everything could be packed up.

“Ah, yeah. Been a hell of a year.” He scratched the back of his neck, a clear tell of embarrassment. Of course these idiots wouldn’t pick up on that though. 

“Well? Details John?” Another piped up, this one a fellow doctor, although not up to par with John’s ability. He had a clear drinking problem, not very reliable. 

John opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a loud voice from the little stage near the back corner of the pub.

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen! It’s Thursday night and you all know what that means!” The man, early thirties, trying too hard, waxes once a week, yelled into the microphone. The crowd cheered back, some semblance of a word there, but too unsynchronized to be understood. “Karaoke night!!” 

Sherlock just barely restrained himself from banging his head on the table. Why God, oh why was he in this situation?

John. Always John.

Damn him. Damn him for piquing his curiosity.

While cursing his flatmate, Sherlock barely noticed half of John’s mates getting up from the table, presumably to partake in this ridiculous event. He made to stand up, to snatch his coat and escape this horrendous torture before it could start, but a hand on his stopped the movement.

“Please don’t go.” John gave him these pleading eyes, not letting go of his grip. “I know you want to, and I promise we can soon, but just… just not yet. Please?”

Oh damn it all to hell. 

Sherlock resumed his seat, half-heartedly glaring at John, but it doesn’t work as well when John blinds him with his smile again. 

Someone had brought back another round of drinks for the group. Sherlock gratefully downed what was left of the original glass, then reached for a second glass of scotch. If he was going to suffer, at least he could dull the edges. He considered stuffing the ends of his scarf into his ears before catching John’s eyes again.

They had stopped pleading, but they looked thoughtful. Somehow soft (a ridiculous notion), a fond expression accompanied with a small smile. They were close, closer than normal anyways, and Sherlock could see the intricate starburst of color in his doctor’s eyes. It made Sherlock’s heart flutter a bit, his toes wiggle and he suddenly couldn’t remember… well. Anything, if he was honest. This wasn’t a normal John Watson look, not one Sherlock had ever seen at least. He didn’t know what to make of it. 

Sherlock looked down at his glass, trying to understand, but the next time he looked up, John had been engaged in conversation with one of his friends. A song was starting up in the back of his mind, and oh god that voice could makes a chorus of cows sound good. Why do people subject themselves to public humiliation in this fashion? 

John was looking at him again, but with a different expression. This one was closer to the neutral face he had most of the time, but not quite. Something is bothering him. But what? He didn’t think it was his army mates, nor could it have been the insipid singing that now permeated the pub. Maybe it was Sherlock’s presence. John could be regretting extending an invitation, finally coming to the conclusion that Sherlock just doesn’t belong in this part of his life, that Sherlock could never belong to this setting. 

Another singer was applauded, even though every note had fallen flat while she sang. Sherlock was so caught up in deducing her life (and the fact that she would probably be going home with the man several years her junior sitting at the bar eyeing her even though she had a wedding ring tucked in her pocket; typical) that he hadn’t noticed John and nearly everybody in their group had removed themselves from the table. Sherlock sat up straighter, quickly scanning the crowd before he spotted that familiar greying blond head near the stage. 

Oh Lord no. 

He and his mates climbed onto the small platform, gathering around the solo microphone. The music started playing, a piano, clearly familiar to the crowd because they whooped and hollered as the men began to sing. 

“Babe, I'm leaving, I must be on my way  
The time is drawing near  
My train is going, I see it in your eyes  
The love, the need, your tears”

They weren’t half bad together, and the other patrons obviously agreed, their cheers gathering strength. Sherlock had to strain his ears to hear, trying to pick out John’s voice. John hadn’t been focused on the words of the machine, but rather locked on Sherlock’s. His eyes, even from this distance, were earnest almost as if forcing the detective to hold his gaze. 

As if Sherlock could look away.

“But I'll be lonely without you  
And I'll need your love to see me through  
Please believe me, my heart is in your hands  
'Cause I'll be missing you”

Sherlock tried to concentrate on the words, but it was hard with this buzzing in his ear that had nothing to do with the bar and everything to do with the strange pounding his heart had started. He could feel something big happening, a monumental change, but he just couldn’t pinpoint what. 

And then John took over the next part alone.

“'Cause you know it's you babe  
Whenever I get weary and I've had enough  
I feel like giving up  
You know it's you babe  
Giving me the courage and the strength I need

Please believe that it's true, babe, I love you”

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. Looking into John’s eyes, this time he could see it. That was the name to the feeling he couldn’t place. Love. The almost desperate look in John’s eyes told him that those words, although sang in front of a crowd, were meant for Sherlock. And they were sincere. 

The next time Sherlock becomes aware of what’s around him, he realizes he left the pub. He tried to focus on which street he was on, but figured that his brain couldn’t do anything with that information quite yet.

John loves him?

Of course he knew John cared, that it was a kind of love, but in a platonic way. A brotherly kind of way. Not an in love with kind of way. Sherlock was aware of that until he saw…

This is a lot to process. 

He became vaguely aware of somebody calling his name. Or maybe there was another Sherlock nearby and they were being called for. No that’s a ridiculous thought; Sherlock isn’t a common name, the statistics put any other option out of contention. 

His arm was grabbed, spinning him around, and Sherlock deduced who it was by the strength, size and feel of the hand before his eyes finally focused on John.

He looked… Sherlock couldn’t tell. It was as if his brain had decided to stop deducing for posterity, a strange preservation technique until he could control what was careening through his mind.

John was speaking, and his voice was soothing until Sherlock could finally concentrate on his words, “and, God, I don’t know why I went along with that plan. It had been Matt’s suggestion. I never meant to spring it on you, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Sherlock please, understand that, I just needed to tell you. It begins to eat away at a man’s soul, watching their greatest desire just out of arms reach, being brilliant, being my constant. But, Sherlock, if this affects our friendship, please, please try to forget this. Delete it or whatever. I can’t lose you to this. I can’t lose you to anything.” 

John had both hands on his arms now, holding him steady. Sherlock wasn’t sure where his body wanted to go, but it kept swaying forward, like a gravitation pull towards his own constant. He would later deny gaping his mouth like a fish (and John would remind him that that was exactly what he had looked like) trying to grasp all the words swirling in his mind palace.

Finally, the one that was the loudest in his hard drive brain articulated itself on his tongue.  
“You--” He cleared his throat, started again. “You love me?”

John’s lips quirked a bit. “Don’t tell me I’ve successfully hid that fact from the most observant man in England? Not one clue gave you any indication?”

“Don’t mock me John. Answer me.”

One of John’s hands removed themselves from Sherlock’s sleeve but the contact was gone long as those steady (always so steady, mark of an excellent doctor) fingers, the dry palm, gently cupped Sherlock’s cheek. His eyes kept roaming John’s face, but his brain was in reboot, awaiting what every calculation he had made in regards to John had decided were improbable, impossible. 

“Yes, my beautiful idiot. I love you. Have loved you for a very long time.”

He means it, Sherlock’s brain finally caught on. He could read the truth of the words in John’s eyes, the soft smile on his mouth, Sherlock even thought he could read the sincerity in the unique curve of John’s ear.

John spoke again, “are you going to say anything? You know it freaks me out when this happens. If it makes you uncomfortable or something--” He started to pull back, away from Sherlock.

No, no no, that’s not acceptable.

Before John could continue breaking their contact Sherlock created a new one. His mouth pressed against John’s. The doctor’s mouth had been open, so Sherlock took it as an invitation, joining his tongue with John’s too. More points of connection manifested as John quickly reacted, rising on his toes and throwing his arms around Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock couldn’t remember kissing being quite like this. A full body experience, not just the tactile ones of bodies against each other but also as if minds and hearts and souls were melding in the process. John shifted his head a bit, bringing their noses together, nipping his lip a bit before delving back into Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock was the one to break their mouths apart, boring breathing getting in his way of continuing the kissing. John too was panting, his forehead pressed against the taller man’s. His eyes were so bright, his smile even more luminous than Sherlock could ever recall. Sherlock felt like he would combust, his mind still raking over the fact of John loving him. John kissing him. 

John doing other things to him…

And his brilliant doctor must have noticed the change of Sherlock’s thoughts, as he pressed one firm kiss to the detective’s mouth before turning his head to the street, raising one arm and shouting “Taxi!”


	6. And Sherlock...

John was enjoying a solitary afternoon dozing on the couch after completing his perfunctory cleaning of the flat. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so like it could be this time of year. Sherlock was off, running around doing what not, probably being a terror to London with all his brilliance and manic energy. He should be home soon, thought John, although not concerned in the least.

In fact, he was more excited. 

After being together now for nearly seven months, John still woke up some mornings pinching himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming that Sherlock asleep next to him. Sometimes he pinched Sherlock just because he was hogging some part of the bedding. But their relationship was like slipping on an old worn t-shirt: it was soft, comfortable, and perfectly molded to them. 

Well…most of the time. John remembered one particular instance after John had been especially snarky against Mycroft resulting in Sherlock being exceedingly aroused. Once his brother had left, John found himself lifted up against the wall, braced there by Sherlock’s arms around his back and his cock… John let out a little moan with the memory. That had been far from old and worn.

Drifting in that space where day dreams flint through the mind like a water color painting in the rain, John didn’t immediately take notice when a certain consulting detective came home. But his ears piqued with confusion when he heard Sherlock speaking.

But that’s just the thing. Sherlock wasn’t just talking; his voice had too much of a lyrical tone to it be labeled as something as pedestrian as speaking. 

Sherlock was singing.

“Gonna find my baby, gonna hold him tight  
Gonna grab some afternoon delight  
My motto's always been; when it's right, it's right”

John was still lying on the couch, determined not to give away that he was awake as he would hate for this little concert to be over. Sherlock never sang; not in the shower, not around the flat, not in bed (although John once coaxed a nearly musical gasp out of him once, much to his delight). In nearly seven years of knowing Sherlock, John had never once heard a musical note come from that man’s vocal cords. But there he was, in their kitchen, making tea while singing.

“Why wait until the middle of a cold dark night  
When everything's a little clearer in the light of day  
And we know the night is always gonna be there any way”

Hell, John didn’t even think Sherlock knew any songs, let alone one like Afternoon Delight. But then, if the man was going to store any songs in the Mind Palace, they would of course be older classics; John couldn’t imagine any of the modern pop songs infiltrating the sacred memory banks. He shuddered to think of it.

 

Sherlock came into the living room with two cups of tea, making his way over to where John was lounging. Of course he knew John wasn’t asleep. Git.

“Thinkin' of you's workin' up my appetite” The look on Sherlock’s face was almost predatory as he continued coming towards John. “Looking forward to a little afternoon delight” He placed the mugs on the coffee table (John’s mind vaguely thought about coasters, but it was fleeting when there were much more welcome thoughts on his mind) “Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite” Sherlock then straddled John, slotting clothed groins together… “and the thought of rubbin' you is getting so exciting”

To emphasize his point, Sherlock grinded his cock onto John’s own, both straining to be a part of these proceedings. John couldn’t take it anymore: not the voice of sex singing about sex, not the clothes in the way, and especially not the distance between their mouths. He gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck, dragging him down to kiss that tantalizing mouth, both already open so desperate tongues could meet. Sherlock continued to push his hips down, creating the friction they desired all while slipping buttons through their holes.

With long practiced moves, they were both bare chested in record time without once breaking the kiss. But once John had free access to that lean alabaster chest he tore his mouth away in order to reattach it to a collarbone, nipping and licking his way down and across before finding a budded nipple. Sherlock wasn’t too terribly sensitive there, but John hated to feel as if he was neglecting any other the perfection his partner possessed on his body. As he worked, John’s hands deftly unhooked the trousers that were imprisoning what he desperately wanted right now. Once he had them loosened and pushed down far enough John took two handfuls of the most perfect arse he had ever seen, let alone been allowed to touch, grope, lick, push into…

Sherlock moaned, and John wanted more. Their cocks had lost contact when John had slipped down to admire Sherlock’s chest, but as he shimmied back upwards they reconnected, harder, more urgent than before. And, as much as John loved having Sherlock on top of him, surrounding him, devoting every cell to their mutual pleasure, John had a different plan.

He quickly sat up, hands still grasping Sherlock’s arse, spun and stood. John could easily lift the detective even after all these years after the army, and he did so love the gasp that escaped before lips began to suck on his neck. He walked them to their bedroom, pausing for an unmeasurably amount of time with Sherlock pinned to the wall as they resumed kissing each other breathless.

Finally John got Sherlock on the bed, stripped himself down naked while Sherlock kicked his trousers and pants the rest of the way off, and crawled on top. He would never cease to be amazed at how perfectly they worked, fit, molded together; no matter who was on top, or on their sides, or not even touching, they were each other’s matching counter piece. Moaning in unison, John scrambled for their bedside table.

He tore his mouth away from the earlobe he had been nibbling, “Sherlock… mmm focus Sherlock. Where’s the lube?”

A muffled expletive, then “I believe we used it up the last time, and it was my turn to get it from the shopsbutIforgot…” 

The last part was said almost so quickly and quietly it took a moment to register in John’s lust ridden mind, and by then Sherlock spoke again. “There is still the bottle in the sitting room, if memory serves.”

“You mean to tell me I carried your arse all the way from the sitting room, where there is lube, to the bedroom, where there isn’t?” Sherlock nodded into John’s neck, kissing it softly, probably trying to be soothing. 

Reluctantly John untangled himself and went back into the sitting room, scrounging for the elusive bottle of lube. Wedged deep in the cushions of the couch, he retrieved it and quickly made his way back to his naked lover. Sherlock never failed to take his breath away, mostly metaphorically like now, spread across their bed, an angel in body with a devil’s tongue, (and one time quite literally when the detective accidently chopped John’s windpipe in a scuffle with a suspect; John had a sore throat and a cough for a week and a half once he remembered how to breathe properly.)

John wasted no time picking up where he left off, slicking his fingers and teasing Sherlock with them along his entrance. Sherlock whimpered, trying to push the digits inside, but John just kissed him to distraction, and when he was sure Sherlock’s attention was away from his arse that’s when he acquiesced. One then two in quick succession, stretching and pleasuring, Sherlock squirming, chanting John’s name in that almost lyrical way his singing had been earlier. Literally music to John’s ears. He wasn’t going to be able to hold out long.

“John… ooo John, I’m ready. Come on John, I want you inside me. Now.” One more fierce kiss as John lined himself up, then both men got what they wanted. Thrusting long and deep, Sherlock engulfed John’s cock with long legs wrapped around his waist. “Oh God John, just like that, oh yes… Jooohn… love you John.” Kiss to the throat. “Love you always.”

Pushing, pulling, rhythmic thrusting and expressive whines pulsed through the air. John’s arms snaked around to Sherlock’s back, lifting him slightly, changing the angle to bring them both the most pleasure. Sherlock cried out, and a half a dozen thrusts later both were coming, clutching and near silent gasps the only sound around them.

John collapsed on top of Sherlock, hugging him tightly. “Love you too. God how I love you, Sherlock.” Their breathing caught up with them, slowing their pounding hearts. Nuzzling Sherlock’s neck, a thought occurred. “Hey, how did you know that song? Why isn’t that included in the category of trivial data?”

“Hmm? Oh yes.” Sherlock shifted a leg, stretching it out. “One of my first memories, I was four, and the song was playing on the radio. I had just been coming inside from bug gathering, trying to sneak them up to my room without Mummy seeing me. I heard her and Dad giggling in the kitchen, so I peaked in. They were dancing, dad singing horribly off key just to hear her laugh. Later it became a memory I cherished because it reminded me that, while the kids at school were mean to me, sniveling idiots the lot of them, I at least had two parents who loved each other. And me. It helped.” 

“You do have truly spectacular parents.” John lifted his head to kiss him. “We can only strive to be as adorable of an old couple when we reach that age.”

“With you John, it is entirely possible. Besides you already dress like my father; all you’re missing is the little bow tie.”

“Oi!” John poked him in the ribs, earning a laugh. “No old man jokes right after sex.”

“Oh, but any other time is perfectly acceptable?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

“And I love you.”

“Love you too John. Long after you are wearing bow ties and forget where your glasses are.” 

And there they dozed, their bed warm on a summer’s afternoon, with Sherlock humming Afternoon Delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I hope that was good, because I have never written anything remotely resembling sex before, so this was all very new to me. This is also the end of the story, so thank you greatly for reading, I do hope you enjoyed it.

**Author's Note:**

> I have the ideas for the other chapters written down, but I have no idea when I will type them out. Please let me know if there are mistakes, I will fix them! Thank you!


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